


oh lord, don't ask me what i mean

by spiralingcosmos



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fade to Black, First Kiss, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Not Beta Read, and my house likes queen agenda, pushing my wilson is a nerd agenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiralingcosmos/pseuds/spiralingcosmos
Summary: House tends to dance around his words, avoiding saying just what he means. Luckily, Wilson can translate.Or, five times when House didn't say what he meant, and one time he did.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 151





	oh lord, don't ask me what i mean

**Author's Note:**

> hey gang me again! the brainrot is real folks it really is. i'm not even done with the show yet and this is my second fic lol ANYWAYS title is from white knuckle jerk (where do you get off?) by will wood and the tapeworms. these all take place somewhere ambiguously in s1/s2/pre-tritter arc s3. more stuff at the end and as always i hope u enjoy :)

-i-

It was almost noon when House finally limped through the doors of Princeton-Plainsboro, and Cuddy was in too much of a rush to do much more than hand him the files for three or four potential new cases before she dashed off. He barely even argued, just fired off a few particularly mean jabs after her, and then paused, leaning heavily against the counter of the nurses’ station.

From where he stood just inside the clinic, Wilson could tell it was a bad day.

“Oh, goody, you’re here,” House remarked bitterly as the other man made his way towards him. “Need a script.”

“I’m sure,” Wilson replied coolly. “Hand me your bag, will you?”

House frowned. “What, need to search me? Make sure I don’t already have some in there?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p.’

“Then no.”

Wilson sighed, affecting his perfected ‘I am mildly exasperated with you but I am also a deeply caring individual’ look, knowing full well that it would come across far too fondly. “Just give me the damn bag, House.”

“What makes you think I need help?” House’s voice had gone defensive, in that way that made him seem almost angry.

“Unless you want me to explain every little tell you have that indicates to me it’s a bad pain day, I’m just going to offer to do something nice for you and hope you accept it. Also, you’re clearly favoring your left side, you’re leaning heavily on the cane, and you wince -- there, you did it again! -- you wince every time you shift your weight to the right. Stop being an ass and let me do something nice.”

“No.”

“House --” 

He was already walking away towards the elevators. Wilson huffed and followed after him.

“Stop patronizing me,” House muttered as the doors slid shut.

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Give me the bag. I’ll get you the script before you’ve even finished deciding which case you’re going to take.”

“None of them, if I can help it,” House said, shifting all his weight over to his left side just long enough to get the bag off. “They’re all boring. As per usual.”

“Have you even looked at them?” Wilson asked, taking the bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

House snorted. “No. But Cuddy’s busy fending off several angry parents in the ER, do you think she had time to pick me a really juicy case?”

Wilson nodded his head in assent as the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened, letting them off. The two set off towards the conference room where House’s team would already be waiting.

Inside, Wilson set down House’s bag while the other tossed the files on the table and began mocking Chase’s particularly loud sweater vest of the day. He walked to the back of the room towards the coffeepot to get himself a cup; it may be almost noon, but also, Cameron bought good creamer, and he kept a cheesy mug a patient had given him in the cupboard for just these purposes.

Speaking of which, Cameron was eyeing him curiously. He sent her a look that hopefully came across as ‘say a word about the bag and I will kill you.’ 

“What about this one?” Foreman was asking, flipping through one of the folders. “32-year-old male, sudden onset of blurred vision, nausea, vomiting, seizures, aphasia, personality change?”

“Sounds like a brain tumor,” Wilson commented, knowing full well it probably wouldn’t be. 

Foreman shook his head. “He’s already had a head CT. It was clean.”

“Yeah, Wilson,” House interjected in a tone reminiscent of a passive-aggressive five year old, “head CT was clean, idiot.”

Cameron looked mildly upset, like she was about to intervene, so Wilson stood to leave. “I’ll leave it on your desk when I get it,” he informed House, remaining intentionally vague about what ‘it’ was so as not to attract the attention of one already-worried fellow in particular.

House threw a tennis ball at him and missed, the ball -- which, by the way, seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Wilson had no idea where he actually kept those things -- bouncing off the doorframe. 

Wilson smiled as he headed towards his own office to write up the script. That was the closest he was coming to a ‘thank you’ today.

-ii-

“For the last time, Wilson, and I mean the _last_ , we are _not_ watching Star Trek.”

“Why not? We watch your shows every time, I think it’s only fair that you watch one of mine!”

House groaned, throwing his head back dramatically against the couch. From where he stood behind the couch, Wilson looked into his friend’s upside-down blue eyes and tried to appear stern. It wasn’t going to work, obviously, so he went for his next method.

“Please?”

House made a face. “The puppy eyes are cheating, you bastard. You’re paying for dinner.”

Wilson smiled triumphantly and headed to the kitchen to call the Chinese takeout place that did delivery.

Sitting on the couch together, feet kicked up in tandem, bottles of beer sweating on the table next to each other, Wilson picked at his teriyaki noodles and wondered when the two of them had gotten so _synced_.

“You know who I think you’d be in this?” House asked, apropos of nothing, shaking Wilson out of his thoughts.

He sighed, afraid to hear the answer. “Who would I be in this, House?”

“Someone who dies in the first fifteen minutes. Or Yeoman Rand. Someone who cares too much.”

“Alright, Spock, mind explaining your reasoning there?”

“Why am I Spock? Why not Kirk?” 

Wilson laughed. “You’re asking why you’re the brilliant, logical ass who saves the day and refuses to admit to having feelings?”

Onscreen, Kirk leaned an arm around behind Spock. _“You’re not going to admit that for the first time in your life, you committed a purely human, emotional act?”_

 _“No, sir,”_ Spock responded. Wilson glanced over at House, a smile playing across his lips, as Kirk laughed.

 _“Mr. Spock, you’re a stubborn man,”_ Kirk said, grinning. House very pointedly did not look back towards Wilson.

 _“Yes, sir,”_ Spock replied.

As the episode faded to the credits, House took a sip of his beer and shifted. “Eh. Maybe. Still don’t see it.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Wilson murmured light-heartedly as he drank from his own. “But _Rand_? She’s way more Cameron, don’t you think?”

House tipped his head as though he were considering. “Yeah, maybe. You might make a decent Kirk, actually.”

And that’s all the confirmation Wilson needed to hear to know the two of them are, somehow, on the same page, even if they won’t admit to it, and the knowledge sent a buzz up his spine that he’d probably attribute to the alcohol later. He always was something of a lightweight.

-iii-

It was late. Far too late to really justify the coming over, of course, but the light in House’s apartment was on and god, Wilson just needed to talk to someone who wasn’t going to shoot him a pitying glance every five minutes. The girl was _young_ , she was _pulling through_ , she should’ve been _fine_ , but she’d died anyway, and he just wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t the hospital.

He paused in the entry just before the front door, his key nearly in the lock, but stopped before he could actually put it in.

From inside came the soft sound of piano music, something low and sweet and somber, and Wilson couldn’t just let himself in while House was playing. For all he liked to goof off with a guitar in front of others, House had always treated the piano a little differently. It was more private, not really something he played for an audience. Even Wilson had only been privy to his playing a few times, usually after a divorce.

The notes tumbled over one another to a finish, and Wilson finally shook himself out of his reverie long enough to knock on the door before House could launch into something else, and then he unlocked the door and let himself in.

“Hey,” he mumbled, exhausted.

“That girl?” House, somehow knowing exactly what was bothering Wilson, looked up from the piano.

“Needed to go somewhere else. Get away from all the --” here Wilson waved his hand rather vaguely -- “and do something.”

House nodded, seeming to understand. “It’s late.”

“Sorry about that. Mind if I grab a drink?”

“By all means. Grab me one too.”

As he collected a bottle of his favorite beer out of House’s fridge (he always kept a decent stockpile around), the bottle he’d grabbed for other man already in hand, Wilson expected to hear the TV turn on, probably to some trashy reality TV show like _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ or whatever other nonsense was on at this hour.

Instead, he heard music.

It was more upbeat than whatever he’d been playing before Wilson had come in, more familiar; he was pretty sure he recognized it, unlike most of House’s repertoire. As he walked back into the living room, beers in hand, the lyrics, half-remembered, surfaced unbidden in his mind.

_ooh, you make me live_  
_whatever this world can give to me, it’s you, you’re all i see_  
_ooh, you make me live now, honey_  
_ooh, you make me live_

He set the drinks down on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, settling back. Wilson looked up at House, who was watching the keys intently, blue eyes focused.

As he listened, it once again occurred to him how late it was. Kicking his feet up on the table, he took a sip of his drink and resolutely blinked the impending sleep out of his eyes.

_oh, you’re the best friend that i’ve ever had_

Wilson smiled sleepily to himself as the song shifted to something akin to a rag, one that he wasn’t as familiar with. He was fairly sure he’d heard it somewhere, once; probably had heard House listening to the original song before.

The song changed again, and Wilson knew he didn’t want to fall asleep until it was over, but it was already too late. He was so tired, and it had been such a long day…

Losing his resolve, finally, his eyes fluttered shut, and everything else faded into the background, just as the chorus of the song began.

_ooh, love! ooh, lover boy!_

-iv-

Morning light filtered wanly through the closed blinds on the living room window, awakening Wilson from a blissfully dreamless sleep.

He sat up slowly, trying to properly gauge his surroundings, and realized with a start he must have fallen asleep on House’s couch.

Oh, God, what time was it?

Blinking the lingering sleep from his eyes, Wilson pushed aside the blanket that was draped over his legs -- that was odd, he hadn’t had a blanket when he fell asleep -- and stumbled to his feet, looking for a clock. Maybe, if he was very, very lucky, he would still have time to run home and change clothes.

The clock on the wall told him that he was not, in fact, very lucky. 

As he stood there, pondering what to do, he heard uneven footsteps on the floor behind him.

“You know, it’s rude to try and sneak out before your hookup wakes up,” House informed him, sleep still hanging heavy on the end of his words.

Wilson turned and rolled his eyes, smiling. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Nah,” House replied. “My alarm went off. Of course, that means that you are going to be much later than usual.”

Sighing heavily, Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Do you want a ride in, or…?”

House’s eyes widened in mock scandal. “Why, Dr. Wilson! Going into work in yesterday’s clothes, with me on your arm? Tongues will wag!”

 _They already do_ , Wilson thought to himself, but said nothing, just gestured at House in a way that said ‘well, do you?’

“Yeah, yeah, that’d be great, thanks. I think you left a shirt here when you were staying here last, and I probably have a tie you can borrow lying around.” House glanced around, searching for his cane, and Wilson smiled gratefully.

The ride into work was blessedly uneventful, consisting mostly of dodging poor drivers and House changing the radio from Wilson’s station to his own every couple of minutes, and Wilson subsequently turning it back. That little distraction alone was almost enough to keep Wilson’s thoughts from turning towards The Danger Zone, but then House _smiled_ at him, and that venture was quickly forsaken.

He parked in House’s usual spot, the other man’s handicapped sticker hanging from the rearview mirror, and got out of the car.

“It’s… really cold,” Wilson commented as he waited for House to join him.

House snorted. “Told you to wear a coat.”

“I don’t exactly have one with me, do I?”

“Guess not,” House replied evenly as he shrugged off his own long overcoat.

“What are you --" Wilson raised his eyebrows. “No, put that back on. It’s not that long of a walk, I’ll be fine--"

“Just take it,” House said gruffly. Wilson did, gingerly.

The thing was warm, and rather large on him; it came down to nearly the backs of his shoes, and almost covered his hands. It smelled like House.

“Thanks,” Wilson whispered, looking up at House. 

They stood there like that for far longer than was strictly appropriate, just staring at each other. Finally, it occurred to Wilson that he had an appointment with a patient in roughly half an hour, and he still needed to go over her latest information. 

He blinked, once, twice, and then, rather shakily, asked, “Shall we?”

House shook his head ever so slightly, blinking. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Maybe the walk to the hospital was considerably more awkward than usual, but if it was, they both very staunchly pretended not to notice.

-v-

“Hey,” Chase called, knocking on the door to Wilson’s office. “Mind if I come in?”

Wilson looked up from the paperwork he was filling out. “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

“Is there something going on with you and House?”

Wow. No beating around the bush with this one.

“No,” Wilson answered evenly. “Why do you ask?”

“Right. Well, during a DDX Cameron suggested cancer, and then Foreman said he could bring you the scans and see what you thought, and then House got all weird about it, so. Normally he’s more than happy to involve you, even if it definitely isn’t cancer.” Chase shrugged.

Wilson felt his mouth go dry. “Why are you asking me about this?”

“Well, y’know. Whenever you two are fighting he gets intolerable to work with.”

“Ah. I see.” Wilson folded his hands on his desk and cleared his throat. “Well, as far as I know, we’re fine. Thank you for your concern. I think.”

Chase eyed him skeptically, but nodded anyways. “Alright. Thank you, Dr. Wilson.” He turned and left, letting the door close loudly behind him.

Resisting the urge to slam his head against the desk, Wilson sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. He definitely hadn’t believed him. And if House was acting out because of a little weirdness, that definitely didn’t bode well for either of them. God, he was tired.

As the clock ticked ever nearer to lunchtime, Wilson began to panic. There was no way he was going to be able to face House. He decided he didn’t need to eat lunch today, or he could go down later when House was occupied, reduce the chance of having to see him.

 _If you’re this worked up about something as small as that, maybe House isn’t the problem_ , a tiny voice in the back of his head whispered.

Wilson told the voice to shut up.

He put the whole thing out of his mind, throwing himself back into the paperwork he was doing. Somehow he’d ended up without any appointments today, so he considered heading down to the clinic to get some hours done. Plus, he wasn’t very likely to run the risk of seeing House down there.

As if on cue, he heard the sound of wood tapping against wood on his office door.

“Since when do you knock?” Wilson called out, mildly irritated at the disturbance.

The door opened, and House poked his head inside. “Since I know it’s going to interrupt your work.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, setting his pen down, and House came the rest of the way into the office, carrying a styrofoam container in one hand.

“Lunch,” he announced, setting the box down on Wilson’s desk. “Don’t worry, you’re paying.”

“Of course,” Wilson said. He opened the container, and found it full of takeout from the Mexican place down the street rather than the cafeteria food he’d been expecting.

“What is this about?” He gestured at the food. “What highly immoral and likely illegal thing do you need me to bribe Cuddy into letting you do?”

House sat down in the chair opposite Wilson and kicked his feet up. “Can’t a guy buy his best friend lunch just because he wants to?”

“Not when it’s you,” Wilson pointed out. “And not when the best friend is technically buying.”

“It’s the principal of the thing,” House said dismissively.

Wilson took a bite of rice, a smile playing on his lips. Part of him wanted to question House on what Chase had said, but a larger part of him would rather just sit and eat and let himself be happy. 

He glanced up at House, who was currently swiping tortilla chips with a perfectly contented look on his face, and corrected that statement. He’d rather let _House_ be happy.

-i-

That night, after dropping House off at the foot of the stairs leading to his apartment, Wilson got out of his car and took a few halting steps towards the other man.

“Uh -- House, wait,” he called. 

House paused at the top of the stairs. Somewhere between lunch and the end of the day, his mood had soured considerably, and it showed in the irritated crease in his brow.

“What?” He sounded tired. Defeated. Wilson wasn’t sure he wanted to know why.

“I…” Wilson steadied his breathing, though the feeling of his racing heart wasn’t helping much. “I need to know what this all means.”

A drop of rain glanced off his shoulder. Just fantastic. One more level of cliché to perfect the moment he drove the only relationship he could depend on into the ground.

“Care to elaborate?” House asked.

Wilson swallowed hard. “The, uh. The piano. And the coat. And the Mexican.”

For a moment, something like relief flashed in House’s blue eyes before the mask returned, now with a hint of something tighter, something pained.

“What do you want it to mean?”

The question was quieter than Wilson had expected.

“I don’t know.”

The rain was really starting to come down now, and it occurred to Wilson that he should probably get somewhere drier. 

“Wilson.” He looked up, surprised by how hurt House looked. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

House hesitated, grasping for words, clearly trying to find some quip to make but coming up short. “This,” he sighed, finally. “This thing you do, where you dance circles around someone until it all works out perfectly.”

That stung. Wilson couldn’t keep his voice from rising. “You think I would do that with you?”

House shrugged helplessly.

“You’ve known me for how long,” Wilson asked, getting louder, “and you think I’m playing games with you? You think that’s what this is?”

“I--“

Wilson cut him off before he could even start; he was almost yelling, now. “You don’t get to decide when other people’s feelings suddenly become relevant to you! If anything, you’re the one playing games, just like you always do. ‘Oh, let’s see what Wilson will put up with this time,’ is that it? I’m not playing along, House, not this time! I’m done playing along!”

“Wilson.”

“Don’t. I’m going home. Goodnight, House.”

The rain had drenched through Wilson’s clothes, now, his dress shirt clinging to his skin. God, it was still miserably cold, and without a jacket…

“Wilson,” House called after him. Wilson ignored him, walking back to the driver’s side door.

“Wilson,” House said again, voice impossibly soft. “Wilson. _James_.”

That gave Wilson pause: first names were reserved only for special occasions and particular comedic effect, and _full_ first names were even rarer. He turned back towards House, who had ventured back down to the base of the steps.

“I…” House licked his lips. “I know what I want it to mean.”

At some point, the two of them had moved even closer to each other, with Wilson being back on the passenger side and House nearing the edge of the sidewalk.

“I think I do too,” Wilson whispered.

He stretched out a tentative hand, cupping the side of House’s face, running a thumb along his stubbled cheek. House’s breath hitched at the contact, and Wilson could feel his own breath speeding up. They leaned in towards each other, almost imperceptible fractions at a time, the ever-closing expanse between them beginning to feel less and less like an unbridgeable chasm that, once ventured, would swallow them both, and more and more like two men standing less than a foot away from each other in the rain, soaking wet and breathing hard.

Wilson tipped his head up, brought his other hand to House’s face, and kissed him hard.

It was clumsy at first, saturated with the shock and relief and the _oh my God finally_ of both parties, but as they always did, the two slipped into a rhythm. House made a desperate little sound in the back of his throat, and Wilson thought he might quite like to hear that sound again, and smiled against House’s lips.

Despite the fact that it was still pouring, he didn’t feel cold anymore, not when he had House’s hands tangled in the shirt that stuck to him like a second skin and Wilson’s own were laced through the other man’s salt-and-pepper hair. Honestly, at this point, he didn’t even mind how cliché the whole thing was.

“Wilson,” House gasped, pulling away at last.

“Hm?” Wilson hummed against him, leaning back in to kiss at his jaw, the corner of his lips, his throat.

“I think --” he paused, shivering a little -- “I think we’d better go inside.”

Wilson decided he didn’t need to be told twice.

**Author's Note:**

> some notes: the first two are standalone, the last four are all interconnected, but you've likely already read the damn thing and i assume my intentions with that were at least mildly obvious. the songs in part three are all by queen, because i am at heart a good omens fan and also i don't really know any love songs that i could arguably say house would know. he definitely listens to queen i'm right. in order the songs mentioned are "you're my best friend," "seaside rendezvous," and "good old-fashioned lover boy." and uhhh i think that's it!! come find me on [tumblr](dykecameron.tumblr.com) :)


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